Hunter's Rage: Book 3 of The Civil War Chronicles (36 page)

‘We will, sir,’ confirmed the gun captain. ‘Though they’re safe enough up on the crest.’

Wild frowned as he stared up at the grey tor. ‘You’ll hit it, though.’

The gunner nodded frantically, aware that the words had been meant as a statement rather than a question. ‘One more shot, Colonel, and we’ll have them locked in sight. There’ll be no missing after that.’ He wrung gloved hands nervously. ‘But we shan’t penetrate it, d’you see? ’Tis granite, sir. Thick and sturdy. Good as any castle wall.’ He patted the falconet’s big wheel affectionately. ‘And she’d be no use ’gainst a castle.’

‘It will suffice,’ Wild grunted. ‘All I want is to keep the buggers up on the high ground. If you can do that for me, my lads will do the rest.’

The gunner wiped his sooty brow, smearing the stain with more filth and sweat. ‘Oh, that’ll be simple enough, sir. They won’t want to come a pace b’yon’ those biggest stacks. Give me an hour, and the whole place’ll be empty as a slut wi’ punk’s evil.’

‘Quite,’ Wild said, the corner of his lip upturning in distaste. ‘But do not rush to it so. I would attack on the morrow.’

The gunner gawped up at the big cavalryman. ‘The morrow, sir?’

‘You were too damned late in preparation,’ Wild said irritably. ‘I would escalade in daylight.’ In truth, Wild did not relish the prospect of another night assault, given the failure of the last attempt. If they attacked now and things went wrong, he would soon find himself running short of light.

‘You will find your shots now, sir. Pound the very wits out of the knaves for the rest of the day, and wear them down to shadows. Rest only with nightfall, and begin again at dawn. By the time we attack, they will be begging to surrender.’

Just then the mattross signalled that the gun had been scoured to eradicate any debris from the previous shot. ‘She’s ready?’ the gun captain asked.

‘Aye, sir, that she is.’

‘Then load her up and let her fly, Jed, eh?’

Wild watched the gunner pace over to the cannon as the mattross, Jed, reloaded and primed it. He turned away just as the crew were about to fire, fixing his sharp eyes on the high tor, praying for the round shot to somehow find a chink in that deep stand of rock and pluck Stryker’s head from his shoulders.

The falconet roared, muzzle flashing, and the whole scorching unit reeled back on its groaning wheels. Smoke billowed all around in a stinking cloud, and Wild had to screw up his face to prevent his eyeballs from blurring with moisture. He saw the ball strike home, slamming with a cacophonous crash into the granite face, shards of iron and stone flung far and wide. Up on the tor, the redcoats jeered defiantly, but Wild did not care.

‘Well done,’ he said simply, catching the gunner’s eye.

Stryker and his men could crow all they liked, he thought, for the falconets had found their range, and now they would turn the stubborn hill into a place of nightmare.

Near Torrington, Devon,
7
May
1643

Henry Grey, First Earl of Stamford, had to be carried off his horse when he arrived at the River Torridge, for his gouty leg was as bad as ever. He swore when the aides set him on the mangled earth, shards of pain shooting through his feet and up to his knees, and the men froze, fearful of his temper. He waved them away, insisting that he could walk so long as one of them brought him a robust cane. When it had been fetched, Stamford took a huge breath, gritted his teeth against the pain, and limped slowly towards the river. Because it was there, crammed along the west bank of the rushing Torridge, that a large part of his army had gathered.

There were tents as far as the eye could see. Grimy ranks of off-white awnings, ordered in rough lines, narrow corridors of dead grass between. Men practised swordplay in those corridors, bare-chested and grunting behind their blades, while some sang songs of home and others darned clothes or puffed smoke. The camp followers – whores, goodwives and their multitude of filthy urchins – sat around the black remains of long-cold fires, calling to one another with coarse voices and bawdy humour. Some fished in the bone-chilling river, others stood knee-deep in the corrugated flow, dunking, scrubbing, and wringing garments for their menfolk.

As Stamford walked with his lurching gait into the camp, a pair of sentries, faces wreathed in tobacco smoke, clambered to their feet from rickety stools and doffed caps respectfully. He acknowledged them with a curt nod, glancing sideways at one of the officers who had accompanied him from the town. ‘Which are these, Major Lewendon?’

Lewendon, a sharp-featured fellow of average height, wrinkled his pointed nose like a rat sniffing the breeze. ‘Northcote’s, my lord. Devon men all. No room left in the town for them, I’m afraid.’

‘Good, good,’ Stamford replied absently, more concerned with the agonies in his limbs. He paused for a rest, swollen ankles screaming at the unwanted exercise. ‘How many?’

Lewendon thought for a moment, removing his hat and sweeping a long-nailed hand across a head of slicked-back auburn hair that smelled strongly of lavender. ‘Twelve hundred or so, sir.’

Stamford pursed his lips as he calculated his strength. ‘Which brings us just shy of four thousand foot, does it not?’

Lewendon’s head twitched in a minute nod. ‘Thereabouts, my lord, aye. A healthy number, what with the horse reaching more’n a thousand.’

‘Not healthy enough, Major,’ Stamford said. In truth, he was pleased with the results of the rapid muster. He had spared no effort in raising the largest field army possible to deliver a fatal blow to the region’s Royalists. Yet he would never be entirely happy. The Cornish might have been villains to a man, but they were tougher than the swords they carried, and he knew their destruction would be a difficult task indeed. ‘Still, we must net this flock of Cornish choughs before they’re allowed to fly to Hertford.’

‘That is their plan?’

Stamford nodded. ‘Aye, Major, we know it.’ He thought of one of the paper sheets found in General Hopton’s portmanteau. The scrawling lines of ink had ordered the Cornish army into Somerset to merge with Royalist forces from Oxford, under the command of the Marquis of Hertford, the King’s Lieutenant-General for the West. ‘It is a matter of certainty.’

Lewendon’s nose wrinkled again. ‘Might we wait a week, my lord?’

Stamford frowned deeply, irritated by Lewendon’s timidity. He was a clever fellow, astute and sensible – the ideal aide – which was why the earl tolerated his company, but the man was as craven as a baby dormouse. ‘We must strike as soon as is practicable, Jonathan.’

The major’s little brown eyes flickered around the encampment as he evidently searched for the right words. ‘There are other units en route, sir,’ he said finally, fidgeting with the sash at his waist. ‘A detachment comes from Somerset, and men are yet expected from Dawlish, Sidmouth, and Honiton.’

Stamford resumed his progress through the camp, wincing at his puffy legs, which seared as though gripped by hot pincers. ‘Strength?’ he asked through labouring lungs.

Lewendon, keeping pace at his side, held his hands at the base of his spine. ‘Another thousand, I’d wager, sir.’

The Earl of Stamford clicked his tongue as he considered the impact that reserve would make. It would be quite some number to leave behind. Perhaps even the difference between victory and defeat. He passed a pair of bare-chested sergeants locked in private duel, each wielding a huge halberd in knotted hands. They immediately broke away when they spotted him, standing straight-backed, embarrassed that their commander had found them in such an undignified state. But Stamford offered a smile, waved them on, for he was pleased that his men took time to perfect their craft. Soon they would face a formidable foe.

‘Another thousand such fighters would be valuable,’ he said to no one in particular, tugging gently at the black hair of his moustache.

‘Aye, they would, sir,’ Major Lewendon replied. ‘Invaluable.’

Stamford sighed. ‘So be it. We linger here a little longer, then. Hopton will still have to guess at the focus of our thrust.’ He halted again, this time to point a threatening finger at his advisor. ‘Not a week, mind, but a matter of days, understand?’

Lewendon nodded rapidly, again putting the earl in mind of a rodent. ‘Aye, my lord.’

They walked a while in silence, each immersed in his own thoughts. Eventually the major glanced up, his pinched face creased in concern. ‘The Cornish will not receive us kindly, my lord.’

‘Ha!’ Stamford bellowed heartily. ‘You truly are the master of understatement, Major Lewendon!’ He shook his head, the smile still present. ‘No they damn well won’t receive us kindly. Not a bit of it. They’re king’s men through and through. Near as bad as the bloody Welsh. The county will require an amount of persuasion before they bow to the Parliament.’

Lewendon searched his commander’s face. ‘Persuasion?’

Henry Grey, First Earl of Stamford, set his jaw, leant heavily against his stick, and rested his free hand on the hilt of his sword. ‘Rough wooing, I believe it is called, Major.’

Major Jonathan Lewendon gnawed his lean bottom lip, swallowed hard, and stared down at the sword. ‘Rough wooing, my lord.’

Gardner’s Tor, Dartmoor,
7
May
1643

It was just before midnight, and Stryker decided to make a sweep of the tor. He began at the village, where the horses were tethered and bright-eyed pickets searched the blackness, then made his way carefully about the periphery of the hill, acknowledging his men as he went. Some gambled, eyes straining to see the dice in the gloom, others enjoyed the meat they had cooked the previous night. Some kept careful watch, one or two cleaned and honed weapons, but most snatched much needed sleep.

They needed sleep, because none had been free to them during daylight. The bombardment from the pair of small cannon had been relentless, ceasing only when darkness fell. The round shot were just small things, meant for tearing flesh on the battlefield, not hammering holes in stone, but the noise and the flying, lethal debris had forced the Royalists to huddle in tightly packed groups behind the biggest granite shelters, wondering with each shot whether a land attack was being launched as they impotently cowered. None came, although the lack of rest, the cramped conditions, and the merciless volleys took a serious toll. Darkness had not come soon enough.

Stryker, finally free to roam, walked the avenue as soon as he reached the flat top, nodding to the lookouts positioned on the pinnacles of the core, cannon-pocked stacks. His boot clanged against something hard, and he had to quickly leap to avoid a pile of discarded pikes, cursing softly as he went.

The noise must have reached the caves further along the passage, for a figure emerged from one of the larger ones.

‘Is everything as it should be, Miss Cade?’ Stryker asked as Cecily, near luminescent in the darkness, approached him.

He could not see her face clearly yet, even though her voice rang smooth and clear from the night. ‘Just so, Captain, thank you.’

Stryker tried to see past her to the other small caves. ‘Bailey?’

‘He sleeps, sir. His snoring wakes me, even through our stone curtain.’ She began to turn away. ‘May we speak privately, sir?’

Stryker nodded, padding quietly in her wake. She returned to the cavern set in the foot of the granite stack, and he stooped to follow her inside. Not for the first time, Stryker was impressed by the thickness of the walls. It might have been the lowest form of abode in which the girl had ever stayed, but at least it would keep her perfectly safe from the falconets out on the plain.

‘You have spoken with Andrew?’ Cecily’s voice emanated from the very rear of the chamber.

‘Lieutenant Burton?’ Stryker, only a pace inside the low entrance, could barely see her, so he aimed his voice at the place where he thought she stood. ‘Aye. He is—’ he searched quickly for the right word, ‘—disappointed.’

‘And I am sorry for that, truly. He’s a kind man.’

‘That he is.’ It seemed strange to speak about his comrade, and Stryker felt suddenly awkward. ‘I do not wish to be rude, Miss Cade, but is there something you want?’

With that, Cecily emerged from the back of the cave, features coming into focus as she stepped nearer to Stryker and the moonlit entrance. ‘I want to leave this place.’

Stryker barely stifled a laugh, such was his surprise. ‘You still sail that course? Have you seen what is out there?’

The girl’s face was almost silver in the feeble glow, and beautiful as ever, but he noticed a tension in the eyes and mouth. It was not an expression of fear, he thought, but one of determination. ‘Aye, sir. We are surrounded, they have cannon, and we are all going to die.’ She shrugged. ‘Hence my need to be away.’

Stryker was taken aback. The terrified, trembling, orphaned child seemed to have been overthrown by a resolute, single-minded woman. The tear-puffed eyes were wide as ever, but now the glisten of moisture had hardened into a glint of steel. ‘Did you not see what they did to Otilwell Broom?’

She nodded firmly. ‘I did, sir, and it cut me to the quick.’

‘But?’

‘But that changes nothing.’ She stepped closer, eyes boring into his. ‘I must leave. It is imperative.’

‘Why?’ Stryker asked, baffled. ‘It is dangerous here, I freely admit, but you are safer with my men than out there alone. And there’ll be no clemency for you. They have condemned you as a witch.’